


A Feast for Dragons

by Daleksontheenterprise9800, Ghost0fWinter



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Long Live The King in the North, Robb Stark is still Alive, Slight spoilers, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 02:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 22,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4122429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daleksontheenterprise9800/pseuds/Daleksontheenterprise9800, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghost0fWinter/pseuds/Ghost0fWinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winter has come, and yet the war for the throne still rages on as violently as ever, as unlikely alliances are made, and others broken. The Queen Beyond the Sea has disappeared from her seat of power, the Night's Watch has lost its Lord Commander, sightings of dragons in the mountains have the townsfolk in a state of unrest, and rumours of the King in the North surviving the Red Wedding has begun to take root in Winterfell. With the Other's shifting the balance of the land, the only thing left to look forward to is a feast for dragons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jon

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a roleplay I am doing with Daleksontheentperise9800. The chapters are going to be broken down by characters, so some might be long and other's might be relatively short. It will be updated with a couple chapters at a time because of this. 
> 
> (Also, we're just posting this online for one of our friend's to read).

Jon Snow had thought he had been doing the right thing. Winter was upon them and with it a darkness that would kill each and every one of them. He had thought that the Night’s Watch understood what was at stake; he had thought they understood why he had done what he did. They had voted him Lord Commander; they had wanted him to rule them; they had wanted to follow him and his commands. He had thought they supported him. 

He had thought wrong.

The Wildlings weren’t their concern anymore. Things were coming—things from nightmares and legends and myths. Things that would kill and slaughter until there was nothing but snow and blood on the ground. Winter was coming, and with it the Walkers. The Wildlings were men and women as much as they were. They lived and died and survived just as they did. The only difference was that they had been stuck on the wrong side of the Wall when it came up. Now they were the first to be attacked—the first to die—if Jon didn’t act. 

If Jon hadn’t done what he did, the Wildlings would have all been slaughtered and have joined the army of the dead. They would have given the Walkers the strength they needed to march on the Wall and take the South. Jon thought that if he got to the Wildlings first, that maybe he could spare a couple of human lives, and in doing so have a greater strength in arms when the Walkers came. 

Only, winter had come before he could complete is mission. The Walkers had ambushed them and the storm of snow and the dead walking took them all by surprised. Half of the Wildlings had been slaughtered, and those that had managed to get to the boats could do nothing but watch as the Walkers killed their brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers—daughters and sons. 

Jon had wanted to save them, had tried to, but no one really knew how to kill a White Walker. Sam had said that Dragonglass was able to kill them, that it had been what he had used to kill the White Walker that had gone after Little Sam. But all the Dragonglass had been lost in the ambush. When the Walker came at him from the fire, he thought he was going to die. He was a skilled swordsman, but nothing could kill a Walker. He lost Longclaw; he lost hope as he laid in the snow, listening to the screams of the Wildlings and the snarls of the dead. 

He wouldn’t die there. He had pushed himself up and had ran to his sword in a last attempt to defend himself. He hadn’t expected anything to come out of it—only his sword had managed to stop the blow of the Walker’s weapon, and the shock on the Walker’s face was clear that something like this had never happened before. A White Walker’s sword was made of ice so cold that it could slice through any metal—except Dragonglass. Longclaw was made of Valyrian steel, yet it had managed to stop it. After the split second hesitation, Jon pushed the Walker back and in one clean slice had shattered him.

Yet, all of that no longer mattered. Winter was here at last and the Walkers had an army the size Westeros had never seen before and no King or Crow would be able to stop them. Yet, that didn’t matter. It had been the fact that Jon Snow had allowed the Wildlings through the gate and into the south that seemed to concern the black brothers. They didn’t agree with him—they didn’t understand.

“Wait—! You don’t have to do this! You can't do this! He’s the Lord Commander!” 

“Not anymore!”

Jon was thrown to the ground, snow being pushed into his mouth and nose. He had to blink pass the flashing white lights behind his eyelids from the punch he had received. Before he could even move, hands were grabbing at him and yanking his hair back; he felt kicks to his ribs and stomach, and another to his head. 

“You’ve doomed us all, Snow! The Wildlings are our enemies! You’ve laid with one and now you’ve become one!”

“Traitor!”

“Bastard!”

“Kill him!”

“Burn him!”

“No! Stop! Please!” 

Sam’s cries were muffled by the shouts of the other black brothers. Jon couldn’t even get a word out before another punch or another kick to his face or ribs had him stammering and gasping for air. His cloak was ripped from his back and his leathers were pulled, being used as a hold for the crows to grab him. Ghost had been locked up in the kennel and Jon could hear him scratching and banging against the doors, the other hounds howling with distress. 

Arms wrapped around his arms and chest and he was being dragged through the front gates, down the Kingsroad and towards an empty clearing. All the while the shouts for his death never ceased, and the punches and kicks made sure he stayed down long enough for them to drag him there. He was pushed down onto his knees in the snow, the bitter cold a welcome relief from the pulsing pain in his body. 

“You’re going to burn, Snow.” Allister Throne said from behind him. He was the one holding him down now. “I alway knew you’d be a traitor, bastard.” 

Dark eyes narrowed and Jon had to swallow his comments. He watched the men he had called brothers begin to pull dried wood from the trees around them to place them on the snow. They were building a pyre. 

“Stop it, Allister! Please! He’s the Lord Commander! He’s—“

“He’s a traitor to the Night’s Watch and a bloody Wildling Lover and if you don’t want to join him in the fire I suggest you shut your filthy mouth, Piggy.” Throne snapped, and Sam’s mouth slowly closed, the fear clear in his eyes. 

“You’re all mad!” Jon finally said, his voice loud and cut deep into the night. “This is madness! Stop!”

“Shut your face!” One of the black brothers snapped. “You’ve brought them Wildlings down south! Whattya think they gonna start doin’? They raid and kill and rape our women! That’s what they do! That’s what they’ve always done!”

“Yeah! That’s what they did to Ollie’s parents! What do you think they’re gonna do now, now that you’ve let them all bloody through?”

“The Wildling are not the problem! The Walkers—“

“Enough about the blighted Walkers! There’s a Wall between them and us! There’s suppose to be a Wall between the Wildling’s and us too! I would’ve let the Walkers kill them Wildlings, made our lives a whole lot easier!”

“The Walkers have an army of dead! If I hadn’t brought them across the Wall there would have been another two thousand dead men and women and children joining that army!” Jon snapped, struggling against Allister's hold. “Be reasonable! The Wildlings have sworn to aid us in the battle to come! They won’t attack villages or raid them!”

“Piss on a Wildling’s word!”

“They’ll kill us all if they get a chance!” 

“Shut him up,” Throne said as he shoved Jon froward. “And strap him in.” 

Jon was quickly grabbed and dragged across the snow once more. He was lifted into he makeshift pyre, rope quickly tying him to the large bark from a fallen tree. One of the brothers pulled out Longclaw. 

“Whatta we do with this?”

“Leave it there with him. That blade is cursed.”

The man tossed Longclaw back at Jon’s feet. Jon continued to struggle with his ties, wanting to undo them. The black brothers were now all gathered around him, surrounding the pyre. Allister Throne was the one who held the torch. “Farewell, Snow.”

“Allister, by the old gods and the new, please don’t do this!” Jon cried, dark eyes wide as he continued to fight against the rope. It was useless. Allister walked forward and brought down the torch, letting the wood catch fire in three different spots before he stepped back. Jon could feel the heat surrounding him, the smoke was burning his eyes and lungs.

“Night gathers, and now my watch begins.” All the brother’s suddenly began to speak in unison. “It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honour to the Night’s Watch, for this night and all night’s to come.”

Panic filled Jon the closer the flames licked at him. He was struggling, his heart beating so fast he was sure it would kill him before the fire. There was no one here that would put an arrow through his heart as a mercy. No one here but Sam, and Sam was never good with weapons. It wasn’t the pain that caused Jon to scream, it was the fear. The flames now consumed every inch of his body, burning hotter and brighter until it lit up the night sky.

Jon’s screamed echoed for miles, but it was the final words that broke through the terror. “And now his watch has ended.”

The crows slowly began to scatter, going back to Castle Black as the silence that followed after the words filled the air. Jon Snow was dead—the Lord Commander was dead. Sam remained long enough to watch the flames reach as high as the tree tops. “I’m sorry, Jon…” His whisper was drowned out by the crackling of wood. The black brother turned and hurried to find the rest of his family. 

Jon Snow had always believed fire to burn and kill. He had always believed that it was hot, that it would hurt. That had been the reason for his screams. But after he was consumed in it, after he was surrounded by the flames and could no longer see pass them, he realised that it did not hurt. It did not burn as it should. He stared in bewilderment as his clothes burnt off, as the ropes caught fire and fell. When he was free he slowly walked out of the flames that continued to consume the wood of the pyre. 

He was alive; and he was naked. All his clothes had burnt off, leaving him wearing nothing but the ashes and soot from the fire. Confused, Jon turned to stare up at it, his heart continuing to hammer against his chest. That’s when he noticed Longclaw. The blade hadn’t melted, since it had not been directly on the fire. Slowly, he reached towards it and pulled it out of the flames that were beginning to consume it. The metal was hot, but it did not hurt to touch. 

He heard movement from behind him and his first thought was that they had returned to finish the job. The fire hadn’t killed him, so a sword will. Quickly, Jon moved through the trees and continued to run—he ran and ran until he could no longer breath because the cold was too bitter. He ran until his muscles ached and his feet would no longer carry him. He ran until he reached Mole’s Town.

There he hid, knowing that some of the Black Brothers would be here. He sneaked around, hiding in the shadows, until he found clothes left out to dry. He was quick to snatch them and run into the woods once more. Pulling on some trousers and a tunic that was far too big for him, Jon thanked the gods for this bit of luck. He puled on a wool coat and strapped Longclaw into the belt of the trousers. He still didn’t have shoes, but now that he had stopped running and had a moment to catch his breath, he noticed that it was as if he could no longer feel the bitter cold of winter. The fire was inside him, he realised, still burning. 

Jon didn’t linger in Mole’s Town. He left quickly, not daring to steal a horse. He walked and ran and walked but he never stopped to rest. His vision blurred as the sun took hold of the sky but made the chill of Winter no better. His body wanted to give out on him but he did not let it. There was only one place this road would lead him to and that was Winterfell. The enemy held his home, but he could no see any other destination. If he could die seeing Winterfell again, he’d die happy. 

Day turned to night and night turned to day and before long the moon had taken its place in the sky once more. That’s when Jon spotted the fires of the towers in Winterfell. He spotted the brick walls and could smell the horses and metal and shit. His vision blurred once more as he walked up towards the gate, but he could no longer stand. His legs gave out under him; collapsing into the snow, Jon saw nothing and heard nothing but the deafening high pitch squeal of the fire.


	2. Daenerys

"Vly."

As the prophecy foretold, the rightful heir of King Aegon Targaryan, first of her name and last of the Dragon Lords, rightful Queen of the Westeros and the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, climbed on the back of her eldest winged beast and took flight. She soar high above her enemies and her friends as death and fire raged beneath her. Lions and bears and masked men watched her ascent into the air with awe. Daenerys, who was once the Queen of the free city of Meereen, now fled on the back of her dragon with breath still in her lungs. Her friends were strong enough to make it out alive on their own, she hoped. If they truly believed in her, they would know where to go to find her.

Drogon came to his mother's rescue when he heard the cries of good men. Assassins clad in gold and silver plotted against the Queen. They held spears to her throat, and he did not appreciate it. He was to take his mother far away, somewhere she could roam freely and not undergo a familiar threat. Men in masks can not harm her where he is to take her-but others might try if she was not careful. Before their departure, Drogon took his mother to the crypts where his other brothers slept. He landed with sprawled wings and a soft cry, and she knew why he brought her here. Daenerys climbed off Drogon's scales and spikes and moved towards the bolder that hid the stone doors. She pushed it aside with all of her might. The weight was troubling at first, but the strength and determination in her bones kept her arms from caving. Daenerys heard their cries from behind the stone doors; they were crying for their mother.

Daenerys approached her children with open arms, careful not to startle or frighten them. They flapped their wings and snarled as she came closer, but she was not afraid. Flames taller than a million forest fires erupted from their throats, and it did not burn her. She pressed her palms to their faces and cooed to her children in her native tongue. She broke their chains and set them free. Both dragons hurried out of the crypt and descended into the night to stretch their wings. Daenarys watched with pride. They were full grown and ready to fly.

The mother of dragons road Drogon across the narrow sea, her children following on either side, dipping down into the salty sea to clean their scales, but Drogon knew the consequences of mischief with their mother saddling his back. It was dawn when they reached the far North of Westeros. Snow rained from the grey clouds and painted her sun kissed skin white. Her breath left her in puffs of smoke, but she did not feel the cold freeze her bones as her brother said it would. Drogon landed safely behind patches of tall oaks and pines in the woods. Her other dragons continued to fly overhead, and she prayed they would be careful where they land. Daenarys knew enough of Westeros from Jorah's stories to know where Drogon had taken her; her father's castle was in the South, this was the North. She slid down his scales and fell on her heels, standing ankle-deep in snow. Only in her dreams had she ever come here; only in her prayers had she ever thought to achieve it.

There was a wall of ice stretching for miles to the left of her, the tallest structure she has ever seen. That must have been the great wall that guarded the North from the beasts in the stories her brother used to tell her as a child. Though, her attention was taken aback when she heard a scream coming from the trees. Curious, Daenerys asked her dragon to stay while she roamed the eerie woods to find the source of the screams. _Fire_ , she realised from just the smell alone, but she knew fire better than most. Daenerys hid behind tall shrubs in the wood so the men in black could not see her there. They stood around a pyre and chanted their vows while a man burned in the flames before them. Daenarys witnessed this, from the time they began to the time they had left one by one while the man still burned, but his screams had ceased by then. That's when she saw the unthinkable; the burnt man, now unclothed and charred, stepped out of the flames, untouched and unharmed. They were the same, Daenerys realised; They both bore the blood of the dragon. She wished to confront him, but the rustling of leafs and the marching of men alerted her. Drogon was alone in the woods. If someone found him there, they would surely put a sword through his scales. Daenerys gave the man one final glance before disappearing into the night. She climbed on the back of her dragon and took flight, soaring high above the clouds where no one could see her.


	3. Reek

The North had a new Warden; Winterfell has been overrun by Bolton banner men. The direwolf no longer rose above the castle walls, and the Starks were no longer in power. After murdering the Northern King and his family, Roose Bolton, his army and his son, Ramsay Bolton, held the stone castle of Winterfell and controlled the northern men that lived there. Ramsay, his servant and friend Reek--who used to be Theon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands--and his newly betrothed, Sansa Stark of Winterfell, lived and breathed enemy air. Sansa was alone in this world, she believed. With news of her sister's disappearance, her brother's defeat and her mother's murder, and Bran and Rickon's banishment by fire, she had no friends left to turn to when the ice thickened.

Two men wearing the Bolton House sigil stood guard at the front gates. They were horsing around when they saw a man dressed in rags lose his footing and fall face-first into the snow. They grabbed him by weak limbs and carried him to the broken tower where Ramsay ate his supper. Roose was away from Winterfell, which left his son in charge of the North in his place.

There was a knock at the door. Ramsay ignored it at first as he guzzled wine and cut sausage into bite-sized pieces. Reek stood at his side, trembling with fear. There was two more knocks. Ramsay stooped eating and looked up at his _friend_ with disappointed eyes; Reek never liked those eyes. There was a long silence before he opened his mouth to speak. "Well?" Ramsay dragged out the word. Reek said nothing, he didn't understand what his master wanted of him. Ramsey rolled his eyes and pointed to the door with the sharp end of his knife. "Get the door, Reek."

"Right. Yes. S-sorry, m'Lord." Reek was quick to pull open the heavy wooden door. He remembered coming up to this tower with Robb some nights, and how heavy that door used to be when they were children compared to now. The men from before came through the door, dragging a body with them. They laid the stranger on the floor and rolled him onto his back. Ramsay peered over the long table to get a look at his dirty face.

"We found him asleep in the snow, My Lord. He doesn't seem to be harmed." One of the Bolton Banner men said. He found it strange that a man was dirty with cinder yet he held no signs of fire damage. Reek came around the table at a slow pace, being careful not to anger his master. When he caught sight of who it was laying ice cold on the stone floor, his eyes widened and his breath left him. Ramsay noticed his surprise and discomfort. He put down his fork and knife and pushed out his chair to stand with his hands on the table. Reek looked up at him with horrified eyes. Ramsay put on his best smile, tucked his arms behind his back, and came around the table to stand next to Reek.

After a period of silence, Ramsay spoke: "Reek...do you know who this man is?"

Reek stared down at the familiar man again. This was Jon Snow, Robb's brother and Eddard Stark's bastard. He was a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. Reek was suddenly trembling with fear. Theon Greyjoy wanted to keep the man's identity a secret, but Reek had no choice but to tell Ramsay the truth to keep from being punished. In a shaky, hesitated voice, Reek responded, "J-Jon Snow, m'Lord. Eddard Stark's b-b-b-bastard."

Ramsay all but lit up with Reek's words, and that frightened him immensely. Jon Snow must have deserted his post at the wall and ran back home to Winterfell. This meant he was obligated to behead the man for treason. Ramsay gave Reek a pat on the back that had the man jumping out of his skin. "Well then, get him up off the floor! Give our honoured guest the best and biggest cell all the dungeons in the North have to offer! We want him to be comfortable in his own home." The men did as they were told and dragged Jon out of the hall and down the spiral steps. Reek was about to leave too when Ramsay stopped him.

"Oh, and Reek, fetch Sansa and escort her to the Great Hall. Tell her I have a belated wedding gift for her." He said with a smile. Reek swallowed past the lump in his throat and nodded.

"Y-Yes, m'Lord." With that, Reek left his master alone in the broken tower and went to fetch Sansa, as he was told to. He knew what Ramsay was planning, and Theon didn't like it... Reek on the other hand had no choice but to obey.


	4. Jon/Reek

Jon dreamt of fire that night. He dreamt of flying high above the world, on wings made of bone and membrane and scales. He dreamt of hunting through the forest, fire erupting from his throat as he burnt a stag alive and tore it to shreds before eating it. He spotted his brothers-he felt them to be his brothers-hovering over head. One was almost golden while the other was emerald. Jon spread his wings once more and took to the air again. He could hear a voice, and he decided to follow it. Jon had never felt so free before; he had never dreamt of fire and flight.

The voice grew louder the closer he got. He landed by a small clearing, his brothers following after him. He stood before a cave, the opening large and wide. It was probably home to a winter bear. But it's not the bear he spotted.

A woman, wearing all white, stepped out from the entrance her hair was long and matched her dress. She was beautiful. Jon spread his wings, wanting to fly again, but her hands touched his snout and suddenly he did not want to leave. Looking down at her, Jon tucked his wings back in and pressed his scaled face against her hand.

That's when he woke with a start. His heart was hammering in his chest and for a moment Jon didn't know where he was. It was dark and it was humid and cold. He could feel straw under him, and smell the stench of shit and piss. He heard the groans of men, and that's all it took to realise where he was.

The dungeons of Winterfell. Jon pushed himself up and sat on the bed. It was hard and uncomfortable, but it was better than the floor.

The dream had been so real... It had been like the dream he had with Ghost what felt like years ago beyond the Wall--before Mance, before being Lord Commander, back when he had just been a Crow. What had the Halfhand called it? He had said that Jon was a warg, that he could slip into the minds of animals.

But he had been a dragon, and the dragons were all dead. So it couldn't have been that. It had just been a dream.

Running his a hand over his face, Jon laid down once more, his body aching from the beating and the running. But he didn't feel cold. He thought he should, but he didn't. He could see his breathe as a puff of smoke, but the cold never touched him.

Jon had never really liked the dark, but had grown used to it in his time at the Wall. The Wall was always dark, no matter how many fires burned to light the night. Darkness swallowed them whole each night, and when he stared off the edge of the Wall into the Haunted Forest, hoping to see a sign of his uncle, he never once realised how the darkness was closing in. He never once thought about it, because that had been his home. He had belonged to the Night's Watch, he had given his sword and life for it-and now he was nothing. He was back to being a bastard, and a deserter. Who will believe that his brothers had burnt him at a pyre? Who would believe he could walk through flames and not be harmed?

No one.

Jon couldn't tell anyone about what had happened to him. He knew what to expect though. If they realise who he was, that he was a sworn brother of the Night's Watch and Eddard Stark's bastard, they'd cut off his head and mount it on a spike. He might not be a Stark but he had Stark blood running through his veins... and perhaps something else as well.

Down in the dungeons where the enemy slept, Jon Snow was given a fresh stack of hay and a pot to piss in; that's what Ramsay called, Royal Treatment. Reek sought out the Bolton Bride and escorted her to the Great Hall of Winterfell, just as his master had asked. Sansa dressed in her darkest coloured dress and picked up her hair in tall, twisted braids. She required no hand maidens here. This was her home, and she wished to do everything herself. Sansa learned to trust no one, not even the Northern folk that still remained in Winterfell. Nowhere was safe, no one was on her side. Ramsay made sure to turn her home into a strangers castle.

Sansa followed Reek to the hall, her hands clasped behind her back and her chin held high so the winter wind could cut her throat. Pain was her source of comfort, it was the only thing she knew to be real. Ramsay waited in the Hall for his wife and dearest friend. When they arrived, he greeted them with a frosty smile. Nothing about Ramsay was warm.

He came down the tall steps to meet Sansa and Reek centre floor. He held out his arms for her to take his hands. When she stilled, he only smiled more and pressed his palms to her shoulders, then to her face to hold her head in place. Ramsey peered over at Reek, his smile melting into a thin frown. "Reek. Where is Sansa's gift?"

Reek nodded slowly and bowed his head. "F-Forgive me, m'Lord. I will f-fetch it, m-m'Lord." Sansa watched as a trembling Theon left the Great Hall and rushed down the hall the best he could without falling. He and two other guards went down to the dungeons and to the cell where Jon was being kept. Reek was given a torch to light his way through the dark stone tunnels. He mounted the torch and reached for the ring of keys he kept around the loops sown to his trousers. He dropped the keys on the ground, his hands shaken and unsteady. Reek bent forward to pick them up. He could feel Jon's eyes on him but he dared not look up. he searched for the right one and proceeded to unlock the cell doors. The guards stepped in and grabbed Jon Snow under his arms, lifting him to his feet.

Reek finally met the man's gaze, guilt swallowing him whole. "L-Lord Ramsay w-will see you now. He has s-sent me to f-fetch you. A-at once, he said." Theon Greyjoy and Jon Snow were never friends, not like Robb and Theon were. He was once like a brother to him, like a son to Eddard Stark. He betrayed Robb and abandoned the only family he had. He killed innocent children for the sake of pride, and for that he was taken hostage by the Boltons. Now he was Ramsay's personal lap dog. Theon was Reek, and Reek will never again be Theon.

Jon's mind was still reeling with questions and thoughts when he heard the sound of keys jingling and saw the dim light of a torch. He was about to ignore it until he saw who it was that was holding the keys.

Theon Greyjoy. The man that had betrayed Robb's trust. That had attempted to murder Bran and Rickon. Theon and Jon had never been friends, but he had always some shred of respect for the Ironborn. Now? Now all he wanted to do was rip his throat out and watch him die screaming, begging him for the mercy he hadn't shown to his family.

Dark eyes narrowed as the cell door opened and the guards came in, pulling him up. He shrugged off their hands, his lips curling into a snarl. "I'm not going anywhere with you, Greyjoy. You can tell your Lord to come down here and get me himself. Or I'll send you up in pieces."

The Guards pulled at Jon's arms to silence him. They squeezed so tight, threatening to break his bones. Reek was taken aback by Jon's comment, but it was expected after what he did to Robb and the others. He had no friends in the North, or on the Iron Islands where he was born. Reek only had Ramsay. Ramsay was all Reek needed.

"I-I insist y-you come willingly, o-or m'Lord will p-punish me. P-Please, at once, h-he said." Reek looked to the guards for help. They yanked at Jon's limbs and dragged him out of the cells and up the stone steps. Reek stood in the shadow of the torch's light and squeezed his eyes shut, listening to Jon's resistance. Memories of his life before the harsh Winter brought breath to Theon's lungs, but Reek rid of those memories immediately. He caught his thoughts before they could escape him and started after Jon and the guards, dismounting the torch to bring it along.


	5. Sansa/Jon

If there was one thing Jon had become rather good at in his time at Winterfell before his journey to the Wall was observing those around him. He needed to learn who was a friend and who was a foe, of sorts. A lot of the villagers thought he was a bastard-a noble bastard, but a bastard none the less. They thought he had a glorious life, that he was surrounded by luxuries and gold.

He had never had a glorious life, not even at Winterfell. His father had treated him with respect and with love, that was true, and his brothers and sisters had all loved him dearly, but he was still the bastard. He was not a Stark, he was a Snow, and Lady Catelyn made sure that he remembered that each and every day. He was excluded from training, from riding into the woods for hunts, from grand dinners and festivals-because who wanted to see the bastard Snow among the children of House Stark?

Jon had come to terms with what he was after he had met Tyrion Lannister. The dwarf had been a better friend than anyone had ever been to him, and that was saying something. He should have hated the dwarf-he was a Lannister after all-but he couldn't bring himself to. Tyrion had been different than his siblings, and that's all that had mattered to Jon. Tyrion saw the world differently; he understood what it was like to be a bastard, even if he didn't bare the bastard name.

It was because he had grown up with Theon, because he had learned to observe and remain quiet when was needed, that he knew something was wrong-that something so horrible had happened to Theon that it had broken the man's mind. For a split moment he caught himself thinking _good, he deserves it for what he's done to my family_ , but it only made Jon frown. No, no one deserved this. No one deserved getting broken and punished and used by a maniac. He's heard stories about Ramsay Bolton-he knew how psychotic the man was. The Stark's had been as much of a family to Theon as they had been to Jon. Yes, Theon had been Ned Stark's ward-his prisoner-but he was never treated as such. He was treated better than Jon ever had, and half the time it was why Theon believed himself higher than him. But the Stark's had been their family, and the fact stands that Theon had betrayed them. He'd never be able to forgive him for it, but he wouldn't hold the man standing before him responsible for it. This man was no longer Theon.

Jon remembered every inch of Winterfell. He remembered exploring it with Robb when they were younger. Everything looked the same, and at the same time, everything was so different. The flayed men flag of House Bolton swayed in the wind instead of the proud direwolf. The stench was even different--it smelt of rotten meat and burnt flesh. It made Jon sick. 

The doors to the Great Hall were the same though, and still held the wooden carvings of the Stark's sigil. As the heavy wooden doors opened, Jon was lead inside. He had expected to see Roose Bolton and Ramsay Bolton and whoever else the Bolton's had here. Instead he came face to face with his half-sister and the sinister smile of the man Theon called 'Master'.

Ramsay and Sansa waited for Reek and the other's in the Great Hall. He sat on the Warden's throne and Sansa stood with a straight back and folded hands. The gifts he presented at her feet were never gracious gifts, only horrible things that brought her pain. When the doors swung open and the guards brought Jon into the Hall, She was stunned but not surprised. Reek closed the door behind them.

They threw Jon to the cold marble in front of Ramsay and his half sister. Ramsay smiled psychotically. Sansa hurried to her brother's side and fell to her knees in front of him.

"Jon!" She whispered breathlessly, tears flowing down her cheeks. Sansa lost sight of hope; she couldn't seem to catch her breath. She took Jon's face in her soft hands and pulled him up to meet her gaze. Years have passed since her brother left for the Wall, since she parted ways with her mother and brothers to live in King's Landing with the royal family. She was a woman, more beautiful than any in all the Seven Kingdoms.

Sansa pushed Jon's curls out of his eyes and rubbed the dirt from his cheeks with her thumbs. Ramsay watched from his place on the throne. He pushed himself up to stand firmly on his feet and twined his arms behind his back. He gave Reek a nod, and the dog gallantly obeyed by taking Sansa's arms from behind to pull her up. She shouted at him, fought him, and broke free from his hold. Sansa held Jon again, her sobs worsening with time.

"Sansa..." Jon's whisper was drowned out by his sister's cries. He quickly silenced himself and was greeted by Sansa's beautiful face. She was so much older, and he could tell from her eyes that she had seen such horrors. His hands came up and wrapped around her tightly, pulling her to him. He had never thought of seeing his family again. He had never thought of seeing his sisters again.

But when Theon tried to pull her away from him he had been seconds away from striking him. Sansa returned to his arms and he continued to hold her, kissing her wet cheeks and her forehead and holding her so close, almost afraid to let go in case she disappeared again.

Sansa crumbled in her brothers arms, and all Ramsay could do was roll his doe eyes. He snapped his fingers and in seconds a guard baring the Bolton sigil dug his nails into Sansa's arms and dragged her back to her husband, forcing her to stand on her feet. She kicked and she screamed and begged to be with her brother, but the hold on her arms only tightened until they throbbed and she silenced her cries. The guard let go of her. Ramsay stared at his wife with mischievous eyes until he was certain she wouldn't pull another reckless stunt. She huffed and sniffled, his arms shaking at her sides.

Ramsay clasped his hands together, his smile growing on his face once more. "Jon Snow, what a surprise. Now, I could be wrong, but you're supposed to be at The Wall. So what is a run away bastard doing here? Did you think your brother would be here to welcome you? Sorry to be the one to barer bad news, but the King in the North is dead." His laughter brought chills down Sansa's spine. She swallowed hard, her nails digging into her palms.

Ramsay gave Jon a toothy smile before directing his attention to Reek who stood not too far behind him. He then met Sansa's gaze, but it was ungratefully rejected. "Sansa." He called to her, snapping her out of her haze. Sansa stared at her husband with childish eyes.

"Do you remember what happens to Crows when they desert their brothers?" Ramsay folded his arms behind his back, his tone flat and emotionless. Sansa's eyes fell to her half brother. She was shaking like the earth when it stormed. Gasps and hushed sobs left her split lips. Ramsay smiled at his wife, then at Jon. "They get their wings clipped."

"N-No." Sansa found her voice. "N-No, you can't-"

"But I can." Ramsay cut through her words like a blade through skin. He skipped down the stone steps and started towards Jon, his hands tucked behind his back. "See, your brother ran away from home. He isn't allowed to do that. The law enforces judgement, and who am I to disobey the law?"

Sansa's breath caught in her throat. "No- No you can't do this...P-please." She pleaded to her husband, but her pleads went in one ear and out the other. Ramsay lifted his head, an amused look plastered to his face. He left Jon's company to find his wife.

"The real question is, who are you to tell me what I can and can't do?" The bastard kept his smile, but Sansa and the other's could tell he was losing his patience. Sansa did not look away from him.

In a small voice she responded: "Your wife."

Ramsay struck her with the back of his hand. It was a loud 'smack' that echoed through the Great Hall. Reek flinched at the sound. Sansa held her cheek, it was reddening where he had hit her. Ramsay snarled. "Don't you _dare_ tell me what I can and can't do _ever_ again!" He looked back at Jon, then at Sansa, then at Jon again. His frown twisted into a wicked smile. He laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "Look what you made me do! Stubborn girl, you know how I get when I'm angry." Ramsay leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his wife's lips. He turned on his heels and went back to Jon.

"Sorry about that." He said sheepishly. "Things have been very stressful lately."

Jon Snow had never been a violent man. He had always been calm and collected and weighed his options before he acted. He had to, since he was the bastard-he'd suffer consequences that Robb or the other Stark children would never even face. But it was at this moment that he wanted to throw all that away, and in that split moment of rage, Jon was pushing himself up and rushing towards the dais where Ramsay was.

Only he never got that far. The guards where quicker than his weak legs could take him and steel and leather plated arms found him and were throwing him down to the ground once more. A kick in the stomach had him doubling over and coughing loudly. The other guard grabbed him by his hair and yanked his head back so he could look at Ramsay again.

"If you touch her again, I will kill you, Ramsay _Snow_." Jon said, every word bitter, but the title of bastard rolled off his tongue like venom. Ramsay may have been a Bolton by law now, but he would always be a bastard.

A hand slapped him across the face, knocking Jon back down to the marble floor. He spit out blood and for a moment he was afraid that they had knocked some teeth out. Running his tongue across his teeth, all he found was blood.

Ramsay was not in the slightest threatened by Jon Snow or his bitter words. His anger left in a breath of hot air and his smile stretched from ear to ear, wide enough to split his face completely in half. He knelt down in front of Jon to meet with him face to face. "You'll kill me? Reek said the same thing once, now he polishes my piss pot. Isn't that right, Reek?"

Reek lifted his head, his eyes switching between Jon and his Bastard Lord. He nodded scarily, fear and forced loyalty controlling what little of him was left. Ramsay went into his back pocket and pulled out a blade. He held it in his hands, his index finger following the sharp edge of the blade all the way to the very tip. "This knife has been in my family for generations. I used it to kill my first boar, and to dismantle an Ironborn's prick." This had Reek whimpering. Sansa stared at Theon, tears burning her solid blue eyes.

Ramsay gave Jon the knife without a second thought, his smile clean on his lips. "Tell you what, if you can kill me before my men can cut your sister's throat, then you're free to go. If you can't... well... I'm sure you already know the consequences."

The Bolton men had their hands on the hilt of their swords ready to draw if necessary. The one closest to Jon was a good ways away from Sansa, but the man that had carried her away from Jon was too close for comfort. Ramsay was a breath out of Jon's reach, smiling like an idiot. The blade was now in Jon's hands. He was in control now.

Jon Snow was not a killer. He was not a murderer-he didn't take the life of those around him-but in this very second he was thinking about becoming one. All his life he had fought to survive, and only killed when it was necessary. He took the life of men that left him no choice in the matter, yet here he was, debating on slicing Ramsay's throat open and watching him bleed at his feet. He was debating on killing this man and tossing his corpse in front of Roose Bolton as payment for his brother's life.

But there was something else at stake, and that is what stalled Jon's hand. Sansa's life was more precious to him than his own. He'd lay down his life to make sure she was safe, but in the hands of the Bolton's she'd never be safe.

Jon gripped the hilt of the knife a little tighter. What was he to do? He could slice Ramsay's throat, and he could get to the first guard in seconds, but he'd never reach the second one before the man sliced Sansa's throat-and he couldn't count of Theon for help. Theon was no longer Theon; he was Reek.

Taking a slight breath, the Bastard of Winterfell stood to his feet. He was slightly taller than Ramsay, and could easily take him in a fair fight-but the Bolton Bastard was anything but fair. So instead, Jon twirled the blade in his hand for a moment, holding it by the steel, and without a moment's hesitation and a flick of his wrist, he had thrown it across the room.

The blade embedded itself right between the Bolton guard's eyes. Brown eyes went wide, and the hand that had been resting on the hilt of his sword fell. A moment later, the man collapsed to his knees and fell down the steps of the dais.

"I'm not playing your game, Snow." Jon said as he turned to look at Ramsay.

Ramsay clapped his hands, laughter spilling from his throat in a waterfall of mockery. It didn't bother him that one of his own men had fallen, it was all but a game to Roose Bolton's Bastard. "Good aim, Jon Snow! I was not expecting that! Sansa, clap for your brother!" He gave Sansa a look, and after a moments hesitation she did what he had asked her to do.

"You're a talented lad, I'll give you that. The Night's Watch must have put you to good use!" Ramsay let his arms drop to his sides. He turned his head to look over his shoulder and at Reek who was standing by the fallen man. He held out his hand. "Reek, bring me my knife, please."

He was given chances to kill Ramsay, but never did he think to end the bastard's life. Chances like these, where he had a weapon in his hand and a free ticket to freedom- if he could run fast enough to get away from Roose, his men _and_ his hounds. Reek pulled the knife out of the dead man's skull and shyly brought it back to his master. Ramsay wiped the blade on Reek's sleeve to clean off the blood. Reek flinched, but sighed in relief a second later.

"I like you, Jon, I really do. I wish I could flay you... and you'd make a very good guard dog, but the law is the law and father wouldn't approve of mercy. Maybe I'll have my wife behead you in my place." Ramsay tilted his head back. Sansa was inches away from the fallen man, shaking, blood staining her cheek from the close encounter of his death. "But that wouldn't be very Lordly of me. A Lady shouldn't merge herself in the affairs of death."

"Lord Bolton." Another man clad in armour pushed open the heavy wooden doors and joined the others in the hall. He hardly noticed the bleeding soldier or the pool of crimson surrounding his corpse. "We have word from your father regarding the Starks."

Sansa gasped in surprise. Could it be Arya, or Bran, or Rickon? Ramsay shot his wife a dangerous glance before speaking, "Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of our guest."

The man swallowed thickly. "Robb Stark is believed to be alive. A Frey girl says she seen him escape." Ramsay's smile flattened, his eyes growing colder than the ice on the castle walls. He looked back to Jon. "Your head will be mounted on the castle gates as a warning. Reek, make sure he gets to his cell safely." The guard grabbed Jon by his arms and secured him so he couldn't get away. Reek moved past his Master and towards the doors.

Jon felt like he couldn't breathe. Robb was alive? No-there was a rumour that Robb was alive. It was probably nothing. It had to be nothing. Jon had heard to stories of the Red Wedding. He had heard the stories of the slaughter of his family, of how Roose Bolton had thrust a knife into Robb's heart, how they had massacred Robb's wife and unborn child, and how they had slit Catelyn's throat.

There was no possible way for Robb Stark, King in the North and the rightful Warden of the North, to be alive. But as much as Jon kept telling himself that, a part of him wanted to believe it could be true. If Robb was alive... If Robb was alive, why hadn't he come back?

The answer seemed clear. Robb no longer had an army behind him. Coming to Winterfell would be suicide, just as it had been for Jon. He'd be dead in the morrow, and his head would decorate a spike in the front iron gates of the Castle.

The way back to his cell remained in silence. His head was filled with thoughts of his brother, with thoughts of his sister and her safety. He wondered where Arya was, if she was even still alive. He wondered if Bran was all right beyond the Wall; he wondered if Rickon was even still alive as well. The Stark's were either dead or scattered and that alone brought pain and misery to a dying man.

Once the cell doors were closed and he was left alone, Jon slowly moved to sit down on the bed. Curling his hands into a tight fist, squeezed his eyes shut. Out of all that's happened-the burning, the capture-nothing had tasted so sweet than the look on Ramsay's face when word of Robb's life came.

Robb Stark yet lived.

And now Jon truly believed it.


	6. Robb

It was mercy and a kindness that granted the Young Wolf his life that night. A girl no older than Sansa came to him in the shadow of the raging fire and pulled him out of the Castle and to safety. She was one of the girls that were on selection to marry him, but instead he chose to love another. She forgave him for this. Unlike her sisters or her father, this young Frey girl believed in choice. She did not understand why the wedding was red. Many died, and for the sake of the Gods she wanted to give one man the gift of life.

Robb remembered her hair, golden like the summer sun, but the image was soon replaced with a memory of chestnut woven waves and the smell of lilies and milk. His body was carried for miles, and for miles he dreamed of her--his beloved wife and son, growing strong under the blue of a gentle sky. Blood poured from his wounds, and in his dreams water rushed down rivers and streams deep in the northern-most woods. Robb heard his mother calling from the castle gates, but fire twisted to smoke when her words turned to ashes in her mouth. Death. Death is what he remembered. Death is what became of his dreams, and when he awoke he laid in a bed sown from cotton and wool.

A woman sat beside him, but her hair was not golden, it was red. She hushed him and cooed at him until he breathed normal again. "You have been asleep for a fortnight." She told him. Robb was afraid. He wished to see his wife, to see his mother and his uncle, but they were all dead. The woman cleaned his wounds and wiped the sweat from his brow. She picked up her things and left him to rest, whispering "The North remembers" before stepping through the door. Robb knew he was in good hands. His physical wounds were healing well, but his mental wounds would leave deep scars that he would bare for the rest of his life.

Many months have passed since then. Robb trained young boys to hold swords in the grass yard by day, and forged swords by night. He was given a new name, a common name for a common man. The death of his wife, mother, and unborn son haunted his dreams every night, but he lived on, because that's what they would have wanted of him. He hoped that one day soon he would see his sisters and brothers again; he hoped they could take back the North and rule as their father ruled before them. Those were just scattered dreams, childish dreams--foolish dreams of a boy missing home.

Robb wished to thank the young girl for her bravery, for helping him escape the flames of hell. He prayed for her health and that she was spared from death, unlike the other innocent lives who were caught in the crossfire. He prayed for his sister's and for their safety, and for his brothers, wherever they may be. Robb might have lost his home, his men, his family and his crown, but he still had his Gods, and his faith never wavered. One day, he hoped... one day.

Ramsgate was his new home. Nobody was a stranger here. Children were free to run and play as they pleased while the sun was high in the winter sky. Food was scarce but the people managed just fine. Robb hunted with the others in the back wood. He was good with a bow, but not as good as he was with a sword. He laughed with the people of Ramsgate, he dined with the people of Ramsgate, and he lived with the people of Ramsgate. Those mental scars healed with time, and old memories faded to dust, and for the first time in a very long time, Robb Stark was a free man.

Only he was Robb Stark no longer.

He was Petyr Vesli .


	7. Sansa/Jon

Sansa used to look out her window every night and admire the beauty of the tall stone castles that made up her home. Now whenever she looked out her window, all she knew was demolition, distrust, distaste, and dishonour. She watched the banner flapping above the iron gates, the wind whipping the flayed man from side to side. Tomorrow her husband would behead the only remaining family she had left. She looked out the window and at the broken tower where Bran took his fall. She looked out the window and down at the courtyard where Jon and Robb once spent their afternoons sparring with dull-edged swords. She looked out the window and cried for them all.

The door opened and in came Reek, holding a bowl of warm water in his clumsy hands. She kept her eyes to the starless sky. Reek set the bowl down on the table, accidentally spilling some of the water on the old wood. He grabbed a cloth and wiped it dry. He didn't notice Sansa when she walked away from the window, so he was startled when she clung to his wrist like a leech.

"Take me to the cells." Sansa demanded, but Reek only shook his head. She squeezed at his wrist. "Theon-"

"Not Theon, m'Lady... Reek. I'm Reek." He stuttered, his head hanging low between his shoulders.

"Fine!" Sansa squeezed tighter. "Take me to the cells, Reek." His name tasted like acid in her mouth. "Take me to the cells, now!"

Reek begged for her to release him but his pleading only had her squeezing tighter. She wanted to break his wrist, but Ramsay wouldn't like that. When he agreed to take her, Sansa let go. Reek rubbed his arm to ease the pain. He lead her down to the cells, lighting a torch to shed some light on the darkened halls. They took the spiral staircase down to the dungeons where Jon was being kept. When they arrived, Sansa shoved Reek aside and hurried to his cell, grabbing the cold iron bars and shaking them to wake him.

Sleep never seemed to come easy after joining the Night's Watch. It was the cold mixed with the terrifying realization that winter was coming along with the Wilding hoard and the Walkers. Sleep was meant as a rest for his body, but never his mind.

Jon hadn't meant to fall asleep. He hadn't meant to close his eyes. Dawn was coming, and with it his death. He had survived the fire, but he wouldn't survive a beheading. All the same, he had managed to slip into slumber, and with that slumber came the dreams again. The fire and flying dreams he had had the night before.

Jon found himself soaring across the dark sky, the stars shimmering above his head and the clouds under him. He flew higher and higher until the tips of his wings grew cold from the altitude. Then Jon tucked in his wings and began to dive. The fall was fast and the ground was coming faster and faster and for a moment Jon wasn't sure how to stop. He was now ten feet from the ground, his wings spread once more and he soared, easily missing the ground that would have killed him.

He could see clearly in the dark. It was as if it wasn't nighttime at all. The trees all held a sort of light to them, as if they spoke. The Old Gods, Jon realised. They were still here, after all. They spoke to them, even if they couldn't understand their words.

That's when Jon caught the scent of something-fur, meat. His large head turned in the direction and he began flying towards it. He was a mile away now and he could see the stags running, as if they could sense him. But no matter how fast they ran, he was faster. He wanted to breathe fire again, but a part of him realised that he should get food for the woman he had seen.

So instead of burning the stags alive, he swooped down and picked one up, sinking his sharp teeth into it's neck. The stag screeched and struggled for all of five seconds before going limp in his mouth. Jon stretched his wings once more and flew back towards where he remembered the cave to be. He saw his brothers laying by the entrance, and they lifted their heads as he approached.

Dropping the stag on the ground in front of the cave, Jon landed a second later. The Golden Dragon rose and move towards the stag, but Jon was quick to snap at him, shooing him away. This wasn't food for them-it was for her. She came out of the cave again, hair and dress the same colour still. Her smile was brilliant and the warm hug she gave him made him coo.

"Jon!" Sansa whispered. "Jon!" She said a little louder.

That's when a loud noise woke him. Dark eyes snapped open and he had to take a deep breath to remember where he was. He wasn't a dragon-he wasn't even a wolf. He was a Snow and these were just silly dreams. Pushing himself up, he stared over at Sansa, frowning deeply.

"Sansa? What are you doing here?" He asked, moving over to the bars and holding her hands.

Reek held the torch so Lady Sansa could see through the thick darkness. Her trust in the broken man fled from her bones when he broke his promise and went to Ramsay instead of helping her escape. Sansa leaned her forehead against the cold iron bars and closed her eyes. Jon's hands were like ice, but they were still his hands, and they were still kind and familiar.

"I need a moment alone with my brother... I want to say goodbye." Sansa spoke softly, her words breaking letter by letter. Reek nodded slowly and left the hall to give them their privacy. Sansa quickly turned back to Jon and squeezed the iron bars.

"There's a tunnel beneath the broken tower, do you remember it?" Sansa looked back at where Reek used to be, then to her brother again. "The tunnel will lead you into to the woods, but you have to hurry, you have to run!" She looked down at the ring of keys she had clenched between her thin fingers. On their way down to the dungeons, she managed to snatch the key's from Reek's belt and hide them up her sleeve.

Soft sobs left her lips. She was afraid for her brother. She was afraid of what Ramsay would do to her if and when he found out what she had done to free him. Sansa stuck the key into the lock and twisted to the left to unlock the cell. She pulled the iron gate open, and when there was a clearing, she wrapped her thin arms around her brother's strong shoulders. The Stark girl cupped Jon's cheeks in her small hands and held his face close to hers. "They murdered my mother, they murdered our brother...They will not have you."

Shock was written clear across the young Crow's face. Dark eyes had gone wide as he stared at his half-sister. For a moment he believed that his all had to be a dream, because what else could it be? It was impossible that Sansa was defying Ramsay, her husband and the current Lord of Winterfell, to help him. He had seen how afraid of him she was-he had seen how terrified of him Theon was, and even the soldiers that followed Ramsay's every word held their own bit of terror to their lord.

But it hadn't been a dream and when those doors opened and Sansa's arms wrapped around him, he couldn't help but wrap his own arms around her small frame. He dragged her closer to him, burying his face in her fire-kissed hair that reminded him of a woman he once knew. A woman who had been kissed by fire and who stole Jon's heart. A woman who had drowned in fire and was long gone from this world.

Swallowing thickly, Jon pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "Come with me." He said, his voice soft and raspy. "Please, Sansa. You can't stay here." He stared down at her, holding her face in his strong hands.

He loved his brothers and sisters, and he'd do anything to protect them. But there was so much he could do in his current state, so much he could do for her. It killed him to know that he couldn't help her as he should, but so long as Ramsay believed that she hadn't aided him, she'd be safe. So there was the question: would Theon-would Reek tell his master?

"T-there should always be a Stark in Winterfell." Reek said from deep in the cruel darkness. He stepped into the light of the fire, his torch mounted to the stone walls. Consumed by confusion, Sansa's hands hung loosely at her sides. Reek came forth and pulled open the iron gates for Jon to step through and into the hall. "The guards will be here soon. Surely they've already become suspicious."

"Why?" Sansa broke through. "Why are you helping us, Reek?"

"Not Reek m'Lady..." The Ironborn took a deep breath. There was a pull in the back of his mind. There was a voice begging him to turn back while he still had the chance. He did not listen to the voice. Not today. He remembered Ramsay striking Sansa; remembered him pull apart her gown and take her unwillingly over and over until she passed out from both pain and exhaustion. He remembered being mounted to wooden pegs and being ripped apart piece by piece. He remembered Robb Stark, and how he swore his sword to the King in the North. More importantly, he remembered who he was, and who he will always be. "I'm Theon. Theon Greyjoy."

Sansa couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. She heard the rustling of chains and the heavy patter of footsteps. Theon grabbed the torch from it's mount on the wall and swung it to one side, the flame following short. "Go to Ramsgate, I heard Ramsay say that's where they suspect Robb to have gone if he did make it out alive. They'll send men and hounds before dawn, you must leave now if you are to beat them. Take this." Theon gave Jon the torch. "You're going to need it."

To say that he was surprised to hear those words come out of Theon's mouth was an understatement. Jon had thought Theon to be completely broken now-that it had been Reek who had inhabited Theon's body. But it appeared that there was still a shroud of humanity left in the Ironborn, and for whatever reason, Jon was grateful.

Theon had been-not a friend, but a companion. They had never been friends, but they had always been a companion to one another. They had always been there for Robb, even when they couldn't stand each other. They had been there for each other time and time again, through the teasing and the harsh words.

Through it all, Jon had always had a shred of respect for Theon Greyjoy, and to know that Theon was still alive in that broken body of his... it was a miracle; the start of many, he hoped.

Taking the torch, Jon turned to face Theon completely "Thank you." He said, his voice sharp. "And Theon..." He trailed off for a moment before looking at the man straight in the eyes. "Take care of my sister."

The ex-Crow turned to Sansa and gave her a kiss to her forehead. He held her tightly for a second before whispering in her ear. "Everything will be all right, Sansa." He promised. He pulled away from her almost regretfully, then started down the hall, away from the incoming guards. He dipped around in the dark, ducking into the shadows and using the torch to guide his way. It wasn't long before he found himself outside again. This time, he put out the torch, setting it aside. It was too dangerous to wonder around Winterfell with a torch now.

Making sure the coast was clear, Jon made his way towards the broken tower. He stayed pressed against the walls, both to make sure the men walking the rafters wouldn't see him, and to use the shadows it provided as cover from anyone who would be wandering the grounds. When he reached the broken tower, it was easy enough to find the passage he and Robb had used time and time again to escape into the woods, even through the leaves and branches that now covered the entrance. He knew Ramsay would be looking for him before long, so he ran. He ran through the tunnel that lead out of Winterfell. He ran through the woods, the snow and mud crunching under his bare feet. He ran and ran until his lungs were desperate for air and Winterfell was but a memory on the horizon.


	8. Theon

The Hounds howled in their kennels and the bells rang above the Great Hall, waking the Northmen; waking Lord Bolton's bastard son. The guards raced down the spiral stone steps like a southern storm, their swords at hand, ready for the taste of blood. Sansa was crossed. If they followed after Jon, they would surely get caught and their bravery would be for naught. If they exited through the dungeon gates the guards would find them and piece the puzzle together. Then watched the shadows of many men dance along the castle walls. Sansa stood behind him, her fingers tugging at the rags that were his clothes.

"Lady Stark." Theon looked back at the young woman he's admired from afar for years. He held out his hand for her to take. "Do you trust me?"

Sansa stared at the Ironborn with weary eyes. The guards were closing in. Soon they would have them locked in chains for what they did, and Ramsay's wrath would be enough to break their not just their bones, but what little remained of Theon. Sansa wondered what exactly Roose Bolton's Bastard did to Theon to bend him so far back. After a moment's hesitation Sansa decided; she extended an arm to take hold of Theon's hand. He pulled her close, as close as he could.

"I'm sorry..." He whispered, then balled his hand into a tight fist and struck her in the face as hard as he could. Sansa fell to the hard stone floor, out cold. He pried the key's out of her hands and hooked the metal ring around his wrist. He grabbed a spare torch and took a step back, just in time for the guards to find him. He pulled a candle off the wall and held it tightly in his hand.

Theon knew Ramsay would be out and about by now, so he took the chance and broke out into a run. He followed the tunnel back into Winterfell and rushed up the broken tower and to the room where Ramsay spent most of his time. The guards were looking for him now. Sansa had been carried out of the dungeons and back to her chambers to rest. They believed the picture Theon had painted: that he had been the one to set Jon Snow free and attacked the Lord's wife in the process.

Theon used the flame from the torchlight to set the candle afire. He set it on the windowsill, just as Sansa had asked. Hounds howled and barked and men dressed in fine leathers and heavy armour searched all of Winterfell for Reek, but they will never find Reek... because reek was dead.

Ramsay pushed open the wooden door in the broken tower and, as he expected, found Theon standing there, his eyes no longer lifeless and cold. Ramsay frowned deeply and furrowed his brow. "Reek? Do you have any idea what you've done?"

Theon balled his hands into tight fists. He stood in front of the candle so Ramsay couldn't see it flickering in the night. He lowered his head and closed his eyes. Heavy hands ripped at his arms, yanking him away from the window and out of the broken tower. Ramsay followed them down the stone steps and back to the courtyard. He did not catch the candle in the window, but Theon hoped that whoever knew what it meant, did.


	9. Jon

Jon ran for what felt like hours, and the sky above him beginning to lighten as the dawn came and the sun crawled its way across the darkened sky, told Jon that he had been running for hours. Jon had to lean against a tree trunk to catch his breath, being unable to run anymore. He felt too tired, his muscles pulsing in agony, begging for him to stop; his lungs still attempting to catch up, his heart threatening to rip through his chest. 

He knew he couldn't rest though. If he did the Bolton's would catch him and they'd kill him-or take him back to the Bolton bastard and the Gods only knew what that man would do to him. Every now and then he could have sworn he could hear the hounds howling and barking far off, but he must have put a good couple miles between Winterfell and him, which would give him a couple hours head start at least.

But that wasn't the only thing that he was concerned about now. He could hear voices not too far off. He pushed off the bark of the tree and started making his way towards the voices. He was careful, keeping to the trees and shadows. He could see a camp site, and two men. One was rather small, clad in red jerkin and black trousers. He seemed to be the squire, tending to the fire as the other man-a blonde clad in black armour-was cleaning a sword.

Jon curled his hands slowly, observing them. They didn't wear the flayed man on their breast, but that didn't mean they weren't Bolton's bannermen.

"What are we going to do? We can't just storm Winterfell. We're only two people." The Squire said as he lifted his head to look at the knight. "And only one of us could truly wield a sword."

"I don't know yet, but we can't just leave her. She's in danger, Pod. I made a vow to her mother." The knight-which Jon just realised wasn't a man at all-said. "She lit the candle, and we'll find a way to rescue her."

Jon frowned deeply. They had to be talking about Sansa-there was no other person they could be speaking about. But why would a female knight want to rescue his sister? He had no weapon on him, so he couldn't confront them openly; then again he had little choice on the matter at hand. He started making his way out of the shrubs that had concealed him. The woman heard him and was quick to draw her sword, standing and pointing it at him. It was a wicked blade, the hilt made of hold and jewels and the blade itself was made of Valyrian steel if Jon wasn't mistaken. 

"Halt! Who are you and what do you want?" She said as she got in front of her squire, one hand on the boy's chest and the other holding her blade in a tight grip. Jon stood there for a moment, his eyes trained on the sword as he carefully walked around her. He didn't get a chance to speak.

"My Lady..." The Squire said. "That's Jon Snow. Lord Eddard Stark's bastard."

The woman froze for a moment before turning to look at Jon once more. She slowly lowered her sword, but not enough to remove it's threat. "Is that true?"

"Aye." Jon said, standing before her now, a couple feet between the sword and his chest. "That's me."

The woman finally lowered her sword and sheathed it once more. "My name is Brienne of Tarth, and this is my squire Podrick." She said, rolling her shoulders a bit. "Might I ask what you're doing here? I thought you were a black brother."

"I was." Jon answered, still not moving from his spot.

"So you deserted?"

"No. I never deserted. It's... rather complicated." Jon admitted. "Who are you and what is your interest in my sister?"

"I was a sworn sword of your late mother, Lady Stark-"

"Lady Catelyn was not my mother." Jon cut in, and though a part of him felt a tang of guilt of speaking so harshly towards a dead woman, the other part wished to correct this Brienne. 

"... Yes, of course. I was a sworn sword for Lady Sansa's mother. I made a vow to protect her daughters, and that is what I intend to do. I told Sansa that if she was ever in any danger that she light a candle at the window of the broken tower. That I'd come rescue her." Brienne said.

Jon had noted that she wasn't a very pretty woman, but that was to be expected from a woman who was trained in blades, he supposed. "How did a woman become a knight, if I might ask?"

"I am no knight, ser." She said. "I was a king's guard to King Renly, and then a sworn sword to Lady Catelyn."

"How is it a woman that's not a knight gets a Squire then?"

"I escorted Ser Jamie Lannister back to King's Landing at Lady Catelyn's command. Podrick was Lord Tyrion's squire, and he was given to me to aid me in my quest." Brienne of Tarth said.

Jon frowned deeply, but made no comment on the matter of the Kingslayer. "Will you save my sister, Brienne of Tarth?" He asked. He had little trust in the Lannister's, but Tyrion was a different matter all together. If it had been the Imp that sent these two on their way from King's Landing, then he knew the intention she spoke of was genuine. 

"Yes. You have my word."

"There is a secret tunnel by the broken tower that you can use to sneak into Winterfell. But you'll have to be careful. The Bolton's are hunting me now." Jon said as he rolled his shoulders, the ache in his body making him tremble lightly.

"The Bolton's-"

"There's the Bastard!" 

Jon spun around quickly and jumped back just in time to avoid an arrow to the leg. He cursed softly. How had the managed to catch up to him so quickly? The horses must have given them an advantage.

"Jon!"

Turning to face the not-knight, Jon raised his hand as she tossed him a sword. Curling his fingers around the shaft, Jon was ready for the men that came at them. Two were on horses, and the hounds followed. He stepped back as a hounds ran towards him, and in once swift move of his arm, the hound's head was cut clean off; the body slumped at Jon's feet while the head flew a couple feet left of his position. The other hound went to Brienne, and she managed to kill it without problem-stabbing it through the side and kicking it away.

Now they had to deal with the men on horseback. One came towards Jon, and the man had to roll away from the attack, barely dodging the swing of the sword that would have taken his shoulder and part of his head. He kicked himself up and got down on one knee, waiting for the man to charge again. The moment he got close, Jon rolled under the horse and rammed his sword into the beast's gut. The horse screamed and tumbled over, blood and gore spilling from the wound and partly drenching Jon, knocking the rider off and landing right on him. The weight of the horse, plus the heavy armour the man wore, made it almost impossible for the man to wiggle himself free. Jon moved towards the fallen rider, then stabbed the man through the throat, ending his struggles.

Looking up from his spot, he took notice of Brienne killing the last man--she had knocked him off his horse and had rammed her sword through the man's chest; the horse had galloped back into the woods. Jon was breathing heavily now, his weak body throbbing with pain and exhaustion. He was tired, but he couldn't rest yet. "You have a good sword arm."

"As do you." She said as she wiped her blade on the cloth she had been using to clean it before. "Pod, are you all right?"

"Yes, My Lady. Thank you."

Jon moved towards them and handed the blade back to Brienne, only for the woman to shake her head. "Keep it. You'll need it." She paused for a moment, before turning to face him completely. "Will you join us in getting your sister back, My Lord?"

"Not a lord, Brienne. But no, I can't." Jon said as cleaned his blade with the same cloth Brienne had used not a second before. His tunic clung to him from the blood that was seeping through his coat.

"Where are you going to go?" Pod asked.

"I have to go to Ramsgate. I'm... chasing a rumour." Jon said as he leaned against a tree.

"Ramsgate? You'll need a horse for that." Brienne looked over at Pod and nodded her head. The man moved over to the chocolate coloured mare and unwrapped the reins from the branch it was coiled on. "Take Pod's horse."

Jon frowned a bit and took the reins. "Thank you, My Lady." He said as he mounted the horse. He stroked the mare's neck gently. "You will need more than one horse to get Sansa out of Winterfell."

"We'll catch that mare that escaped. She shouldn't be too far off." Pod said, a bit of pride in his voice from the idea. 

Jon watched them for a moment before he nodded his head at them. "Gods watch over you."

"And you, Jon Snow."

Jon kicked the mare into a gallop, racing towards Ramsgate. He could only pray for the safety of Brienne, Pod, Theon and Sansa.


	10. Theon

The Mormonts have carried Longclaw for five hundred years. Jeor Mormont gave the blade to his son, Jorah Mormont, when Jeor joined the Night's Watch. Jorah later brought dishonour to the House by selling poachers to a slaver, however, he had the grace to leave the sword behind before he fled Bear Island in exile. His aunt, Maege Mormont, returned the sword to her brother Jeor, who put it aside at Castle Black since the sight of it reminded him of his son's shame. It was later passed down to Lord Commander Jon Snow, and now Ramsay Bolton of House Bolton had claimed it as his own.

The pointed-end of the Valyrian steel sword dug at the centre of Ramsay's palm, his other hand grasped the hilt to keep from slicing open his hand. He twirled the blade to inspect both sides, admiring his own reflection in the forged steel. "Unlike some other houses, my ancestors earned the Bolton words: 'Our Blades Are Sharp.' They passed down not a Valyrian greatsword but a knife, honed and thin enough to fit between the topmost layer of skin and the tissue below... and peel... For as we all learned as children: A naked man has few secrets... a flayed man, none. So tell me, Reek...why did you free Jon Snow?"

Theon remained silent. His arms were well above his head, wrists and ankles clad in irons. Ramsay noted the silence with the roll of his eyes. He kicked his feet off the table and caught the sword by the hilt in his right hand. He swung it from side to side, waiting impatiently for Reek to give him an answer. "Reek?" Ramsay furrowed his brow. He smiled suddenly. "Are you ignoring me?"

"No, m'Lord." Theon finally said.

Ramsay tapped his fingers on the edge of his seat. "Then why haven't you answered my question?"

"Because..." Theon lifted his head to meet the Bolton Bastard's gaze. "You've yet to call me by my name."

This stirred up great rage in the pit of Ramsay's belly. He raised Longclaw up just enough so that his hand could rest on the tip of the blade again. "He was a deserter, a traitor, and all traitors will eventually confront the consequences of their actions, but you should already know this, Reek."

"Theon." The Ironborn said to himself. "Theon." He repeated.

Ramsay smiled again. "What was that, Reek?"

Theon fought the voices in his head and found enough courage to speak louder. "T-Theon."

Ramsay sighed deeply and pushed himself out of his chair. He swung the sword at his side as he walked up to the broken man. "Valyrian steel, nothing cuts quite like it. Jon Snow has good taste in weaponry. I was planning on using this sword to behead him. I found the idea rather poetic, don't you agree, Reek?"

"Theon." He repeated his name again. "Theon!"

Ramsay balled his hand into a tight fist and punched the Ironborn in the jaw, knocking his head back. He then dug his fingers into his golden brown curls and yanked his head down so their eyes could meet. "No, your name is Reek, remember? Reek!"

"T-Theon."

Ramsay struck another blow. Then another. Theon's jowls were broken and his eyelids swelled and cheeks throbbed, but he never once forgot who he was-who he's always been. Ramsay trembled with anger. "YOUR. NAME. IS. _REEK!_ "

"MY NAME IS THEON GREYJOY!" He shouted back at the man who he had once called his master, his _Lord_. Ramsay fumed, clenching his teeth hard enough to chip them. Theon did not back down. "Reek is gone. Reek is dead." The bastard threw one last blow, and Theon's head snapped back, then forward again to spit in Ramsay's face. He took a step back and wiped the blood and saliva from his eyes.

"Have I taught you nothing? Have I not shown you love and compassion? The Starks never appreciated you, your own father never accepted you, but I did. I gave you a new home, a new name, a reason to live." Ramsay squeezed the hilt of Jon's sword. "I _fixed_ you, and this is how you repay me? By betraying me? You Ironborn believe yourselves to be courageous and brave and fearless... But don't you see? You need me, Reek!" Ramsay was pacing now, his heavy boots stomping against hard stone. "You _need_ me."

Theon swallowed past the lump in his throat. His body quivered and his bones rattled under his skin. Something in the back of his head begged him to end this charade and plead the Mother's Mercy, but the Ironborn do not plead. He ground his teeth and curled his fingers to ball his hands into tight fists above his head. Ramsay noticed this. "T-T-Theon...Theon."

Ramsay growled in response and stabbed Longclaw straight through Theon's shoulder, slicing through muscle and bone alike, but keeping had the blade out of his skin, so it wouldn't cut off Theon's arm. A scream tore from the Ironborn's lips as blood gushed from the wound.


	11. Tyrion

Tyrion Lannister had never been one of the faith. Sure, he believed there was something out there, the Seven perhaps, or the Old Gods with their disturbing faces in the trees, but Tyrion had always found it easier to believe things he could see and touch. And that is why he believed in Daenerys Targaryen.

He had heard stories about her while in the Small Council but none of them did her any justice. They called her a child, a pretender, a threat to the rightful rule of the Baratheon's-or better yet, the Lannister's. They called her whore and all sorts of vile names he dared not repeat in fear of getting slapped by Jorah and daggered by Daario, but she was none of these things. Daenerys Targaryen was not a child, though she was young; she was not a pretender, though she was a Queen. The only thing they got right was that she was indeed a threat to the one who sat on the Iron Throne.

She had the rightful rule. She was the the last Targaryen-She was the Mother of Dragons, and now had three of them on her beck and call. Three dragons, once thought long dead, bowed to her as their mother. Tyrion still couldn't quite wrap his head around it. How had such a young girl, who had been sold to the Dorthraki horselords, become such a powerful and respected Queen?

Even after watching her soar through the skies on the back of Drogon, Tyrion still couldn't quite believe it. Jorah had once said that he hadn't believed in her either until he saw her walk through fire and not get burned, now his loyalty for her burns brighter than those flames. Tyrion didn't understand him then, but now he did. Seeing Daenerys fly on a dragon was both awe inspiring and terrifying, because until then, the dragons had been nothing but talk--nothing but whispers and hushed words.

He believed in Daenerys; believed that if anyone was suitable for the Iron Throne, it was her.

Still, he wasn't quite sure how they had managed to escape the stadium all in one piece. Drogon had created an excellent distraction, and had burnt half of the Sons of the Harpy to ciders. Everything after Deanery's escape was a blur. 

"We've no idea where she's gone! We've heard no word from her." Jorah was pacing across the room-had been pacing for the pass hour and a half. Daario Naharis stood in the back of the room, his hands wrapped tightly around his blade, while Missandei sat beside the Imp, her hands curled on her lap in an attempt to stop them from trembling.

"We do know where she's gone, or are you that daft?" Tyrion said as he took a sip of wine. It felt bitter in his mouth, so his set the cup aside. Perhaps it was best if he were to remain sober for a little while.

"What are you going on about, dwarf?" Jorah asked as he paused in his pace, looking at Tyrion.

"Oh, thank the gods, you've stopped pacing. I was almost afraid you were going to wear a hole in the floor. Where would we be then? With you half dangling through the floor and our gracious host with a hole in their ceiling." Tyrion pushed himself up and stretched his arms over his head for a moment, having been in the same position for too long. "She's gone to Westeros, where else?"

"Westeros? Why would she-"

"In truth, I don't think it was her idea. She did say that when they were big enough she would ride them across the Narrow Sea." Tyrion stood and started wobbling towards the window. They were in hiding, near the docks. The Queen still had supporters, and it was two of those supporters that had taken her advisers in to protect them from the remaining assassins. "How long till we can acquire a ship to Westeros?"

"I could get one for us tonight. We'll have to slip in under the shroud of darkness, though." Daario said as he slid his blade back into his sheath.

"Ah, yes. I'm sure no one will notice a petit girl walking with a dwarf, a sellsword and a former Westerosi knight that just fought in The Games." Tyrion sighed deeply. "But it is our best option. We'll sail to Dorne. It's our safest route."

"What if you're wrong, Tyrion?" Jorah said, a deep frown on his lips. "What if she isn't there?"

"Well, she isn't here, now is she? Do you have any other bright ideas, oh Ser Jorah Mormont?" Tyrion snapped, turning his mismatched eyes on his former traveling companion.

"We'll sail to Dorne then."


	12. Jon

The ocean had always seemed so clear and crisp when Jon had seen it for the first time with his father all those years ago. Ned had taken Robb and him-and Theon-to White Harbour to visit Lord Manderly. He remembered seeing the mermaid flapping proudly in the wind. He remembered the seagulls screeching for food as they swarmed the harbour. He remembered staring out into the open ocean, watching the large ships and sails. Robb had mentioned something about sailors and Theon had said no man was better at sea than the Ironborn.

Now the sea looked different. It was dark and cold and when Jon dipped low enough to touch it he could feel the ice that had begun to freeze the water. His wings spread wide, but he flew low. Every now and then a fish would jump out of the water and he would catch it in his mouth, throw it up into the air and burn it before he swallowed it up.

After spending so much time as a dragon, flying has become second nature-almost as if he had been born to fly. He felt free for the first time in his life. But then he heard her voice again-that woman's. His large head turned in the direction of the sound and he was taking into the sky once more. The clouds were now below him, the stars overhead. The harder he pushed his wings the faster he went until everything was a blur of sound and colour. 

_Drogon._

He could hear her calling him, and even though that wasn't his name, it might have been the name of the beast. Drogon. Jon Snow was no more-he was now Drogon.

Landing in front of the cave once more, he noticed that his brothers were gone-off hunting he presumed. The woman was there though, and that's what mattered to him more. Moving toward her, Jon pressed his snout against her hand. It was warm, and melted the ice from his wings. Laying beside her, Jon wrapped himself around her in a protective ball, listening to her voice as she spoke in a language he didn't quite recognise but somehow he understood. He lowered his head and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again he was no longer a dragon, but a man. Jon groaned and pressed a hand to his face, rubbing his eyes slowly. These dreams were coming more an more frequent now, and they left him buzzed and confused when he woke. It was still dark out, and Jon could feel the bitter hunger coiling at his stomach. He had no coin, nor did he had any food. He was an hour away from Ramsgate, yet he could no longer move. He had set up camp at noon, and had fallen asleep the moment he had laid down. With no fire burning, Jon should have been cold, except he wasn't. His body was burning hotter than any fire could.

Pushing himself up, Jon brushed the snow and dirt off his bare body. He had washed the clothes he had stolen in the river, in hopes of removing the stains of blood and gore--he had taken a bath in the frozen waters to rid himself of the grim his body had collected over the last week--and each time his hands or body touched the chilled water, steam would rise from it. Most of the blood had washed off, but patches of deep brown now tainted the tunic and coat. The clothes were dry, but frozen. A thin layer of ice covered it and Jon had to smack it against the tree a couple times to break it off completely. He pulled on the trousers and tunic, fastening the laces before he followed suit the the coat. 

Jon grabbed the sword that Brienne had give him and strapped it to his trousers. He grabbed the reins of his mare and mounted her easily. Kicking her into a gallop, he began making his way towards Ramsgate once more. There he hoped the rumours were true.

There he hoped to see his brother again.


	13. Daenerys

_Fear naught the night,_ , She remembered Viserys say, _for we are the blood of the dragon, and in time we will spread our great wings and fly._ And Daenerys did not fear--not anymore.

She laid on the back of her winged beast as it took wind under it's belly; a belly like a furnace that burned hotter than the sun. He flew low, she noted, low to the salt sea. Her children played, singing loudly for all the stars in the blackened sky. And when she stretched out her arm and spread her fingers, she had the ocean waves at her fingertips.

Daenerys began to wonder what had become of her friends; of the Imp and of her advisor, and of Daario Naharis. Westeros was a massive and foreign country, one she was forced to wander alone without the company of her Queens guard and 8,000 Unsullied. Daenerys was in the company of her children now, and they took refuge in the mountains by the coast of Bear Island. Never again will she doubt them or chain them. Daario Naharis couldn't have made the notion clearer, who was 'The Mother of Dragons' without any dragons?

Viserys believed he would raise high above the rest and sit on the Iron Throne. He had sold her to Khal Drogo for an army of Dothraki screamers and would have thrown her to the rapers and murderous men if presented with more men for his envisioned army. Viserys fought to sit on a Throne of Lies just to watch the city burn to ash beneath his fist. His death was a gift of mercy to all.

Daenerys was not afraid to fly, she did not fear the ground being so far beneath her. Occasionally she would catch herself drifting off into a dream where she would soar high above the great grass sea, the wind blowing through her long silver hair, bathing in the light of the sun. Viserys had once warned her never to have these dreams. _You'll wake the dragon,_ he would warn, _You don't want to wake the dragon._ Now the dragon have awaken within her, and even in death Viserys will feel her wrath.


	14. Sansa/Theon

The candle no longer burned in the window of the broken tower. Her husband must have pieced together the truth. Sansa was beginning to lose her patience. She drowned in Theon's agony, his screams chipping stone off the castle walls. Hounds howled and barked in the woods behind Winterfell as men with swords followed after them, the flayed man whipping violent behind as they ran. Sansa hit the door as hard as she could, hoping someone would hear her, but no one came. Coming to a reckless conclusion, she hurried to her window and wiggled the knobs. They were sealed shut. Sansa acted quickly. She picked up her silver candle holder and turned it in her hands, then proceeded to jab the window knobs until they snapped off and the window opened. Sansa was seconds away from climbing out and taking the long way down when her chamber door swung open. Ramsay stood there, blood covering his face and body. "Where do you think you're going?"

"HELP!" Sansa screamed at the top of her lungs, but Ramsay cupped a hand over her mouth to silence her. He pulled her to him and squeezed her as if to break her in half.

"You've made me angry..." Ramsay's voice was raspy, his breath like acid on her skin. "I've asked you a thousand times not to make me angry, because when I'm angry... I do this!" He snatched the blade that was caked with Theon's blood from his back pocket and held it up to her throat. Sansa whimpered, tugging on his sleeves to pull the blade further away, but Ramsay was strong. She begged for him to stop. Ramsay did not stop.

Theon heard Sansa's voice break through the iron cells. He wiggled in his restraints, desperate to free himself. Jon Snow made him promise to protect Sansa, whatever the cost. Reek would have let her die, but Theon lived to serve the Starks. He noticed the keys hanging from a hook on the other side of the empty room. Without thinking, Theon began rocking back and forth, pushing all of his weight to one side in hopes to weaken the wood Ramsay had tied him to. A scream tore from his lips as the metal nails that had been hammered through his palms tore and ripped at his skin and bones. He sucked in a long breath, held it, and rocked to one side. Blood spilled from his palms and his feet as the nails ripped him apart.

Sansa bit down on Ramsay's arm as hard as she could, forcing him to release her. She was quick to pick up her silver candle holder, holding defensively at her side. Ramsay squeezed the hilt of the Bolton blade with his right hand, his bruised knuckles turning white. "You should know by now... lying to your husband will only make things more complicated, but inflicting harm on your Lord?"

"Get away from me you sick beast!" Sansa took a step back, Ramsay followed suit. His lips stretched into a wicked smile. Sansa continued. "You Bolton's think you're so much better than everyone else... You show your teeth and make your threats but you bleed like all the others."

Ramsay tilted his head to the left. "And you Starks think you're so hard to kill, but my father proved that theory wrong when he stabbed your brother through the chest with this very blade." He held up the knife for Sansa to see. "Don't make me do the same to you, Sansa." Ramsay pouted childishly. "I wouldn't want to become a widower this soon into our marriage."

Sansa clenched her teeth and raised the candle holder. She reached for the nearest object- which was her hand held mirror- and tossed it at him. It hit the wall and shattered to pieces. "Piss off, you spineless bastard!" Ramsay's smile faded into a flat frown. Sansa was cornered with her armed husband in front of her and an open window behind her. She could either confront Ramsay and die, or jump. She decided to jump. Ramsay lashed out, his blade held high above his shoulders. Sansa grabbed the iron railing and swung herself over the window ledge. There was a thud, and suddenly a hand grabbed hold of Sansa's wrist. When she looked down, she saw the ground far beneath her, when she looked up, she saw Theon, a hole through his hand and his blood staining her dress.

He hoisted her up and over the ledge, bringing her back into her chambers. He held her close, Sansa all but melting in his arms. She noticed Ramsay on the floor, a shard of glass through his back. Theon gripped her shoulders and pushed her back enough to see her face. "We have to go. Someone will be waiting for us outside the tunnels." Sansa nodded and followed after Theon, leaving Ramsay in her chambers.


	15. Theon

They followed the stone path to the broken tower, being careful of who saw them, always sticking to the shadows when they had the cover; they climbed the iron gates to the underground tunnels that lead out of Winterfell, the same ones that Jon had taken not a day before. She took his hand, being careful with his wounds, and they ran through muddy water to the clearing on the other side. Brienne and Podrick would be waiting there for them. They didn't have much time. Guards and hounds were coming up short and they could only run so fast. Theon held Sansa's hand, ignoring the pulsing pain and the loss of blood, and pulled her to safety. When they reached the end of the tunnel, he held her by the waist and began lifting her up and over the last of the iron gates.

"Wait." Sansa whispered before leaning down to press her soft lips to his. Theon furrowed his brow in confusion, but kissed her back nonetheless. When she pulled away, he lifted her higher. A pair of strong hands helped her over the gate. Brienne was now holding onto the Stark girl, as promised. Theon started climbing the wall. He managed to get half of his body over the gate, but a blade to the back stopped him before he could make it out. Sansa grabbed Theon's arms and pulled him to the dirt with her. There stood Ramsay, breathless and furious, the glass still plumaged into his upper body. Brienne was the one to help Sansa to her feet, but she shouted and fought against her.

A guard came straight towards them, and it was Podrick who kicked his sword over to Theon. The Ironborn picked up the weapon and sliced the back of the Bolton solider's knees, rendering him weak. Theon disarmed the man, taking the bow from his back and an arrow from his bag, and before Ramsay could get his filthy hands on Sansa, he shot an arrow straight through his heart from where he lay. All was quiet. Ramsay looked down at his chest, then back up at Theon. "R-Reek..." he whispered before toppling over, landing just inches away from Theon. The Ironborn dropped his weapon and fell back, blood spilling out of his mouth in a fit of coughs. 

Sansa broke out of Brienne's strong hold and moved to kneel beside her Father's ex-ward. She held him in her trembling arms, begging both her mother's Gods and her Father's Gods to spare his life. Theon tilted his head to look at her... she was so beautiful. Eddard promised the Greyjoy's her hand in marriage to unite their houses and recover a long lost alliance. Sansa was to be his wife, before Joffrey, before Tyrion, and before Ramsay. He had always admired Sansa, though he'd never truly admitted it to anyone. He had been a foolish boy when the prospect of marrying her was told to him, but as the years passed he noticed her grace and her beauty--and when he was Reek, he noticed her bravery and her strength. Theon Greyjoy never once loved another.

"Go..." He whispered to Sansa, death thick in his fading voice. "Before they get you too."

"Theon..." Sansa could barely speak. Tears burned her eyes as they streamed down her cheeks. "Theon, you can't. You have to come with us. You promised Jon you'd protect me! You promised!"

Theon smiled, though he was in an immense amount of pain; his teeth and lips were bloody. "And I have. When you find Robb, tell him that Theon Greyjoy died saving the woman he loved." Sansa's sobs fell heavy now, and all she could do was nod. The light in Theons eyes slowly left him. "You're so beautiful..." He whispered before the light died completely and him with it. Sansa wanted to scream but she knew better... the guards would come to find them soon if they didn't hurry. Brienne had to pry Sansa off of Theon's corpse. They ran so far, and his body disappeared in the distance with the rest of Winterfell.


	16. Jon

The hour that it had taken him to get to Ramsgate brought the dawn. There were moments when his vision would blur from hunger and exhaustion, but Jon carried on, holding the leather reins tight in his hands. There were times when he thought he could feel the cold, but when he tried to, there was nothing. His breath was a puff of white smoke and so was the mare's, but even through the harsh winds of the winter, he felt warm.

It wasn't long before he could see the gates of Ramsgate. It appears that the name of the small town was rather accurate. On each side of the gate were large ram's carved out of wood; they stood on their back legs, facing each other, with their horns touching, to make an archway that lead into the village. Passing the Ram's Gate, Jon trotted towards the stables, slipping off his mare and letting the stablehand take the horse.

"Boy, where can I find a tavern?" Jon asked, fixing his coat the best he could. He still had no shoes, and that seemed to raise some concern with the boy-what kind of fool wore no shoes in the North?

"Up the street, m'Lord." The boy said. "The Hanged Maiden's the best tavern in the North."

Jon smiled softly and nodded his head. If he had coin he'd give some to the lad. "Thank you." Turning away from the boy, Jon made his way up the street. Mud and snow caked his tired feet, and by now he was sure that the blisters had all popped and the bottom of his feet were leather.

It wasn't hard to find the Hanged Maiden-it had a portrait of a literal Hanged Maiden on the wall. It appeared everything in Ramsgate was quite literal when it came to its names. Pushing the doors opened, Jon ignored the stares he got and made his way towards the bar. He sat on one of the stools and ran a hand through his dirty curls.

"Anything I can get for you, handsome?" The woman behind the counter said. She was young, with curls of fire and bright green eyes. Her skin was pale and splattered with freckles. She wore a long white and grey dress, the sleeves reaching her wrists, and an apron.

"A glass of mead, please." He said, leaning against the counter.

"Coming right up."

Jon watched the woman grab a mug, filling it to the brim with dark liquid, before setting it in front of him. "Anything else?"

"I... Would like some information." Jon asked as he cradled the mug in his hands. He wasn't sure if he wanted to drink it or not; his belly was relatively empty--all he's had to eat were barriers and the occasional hare he could fine--and the mead would be of no help.

"Oh? Looking for a brothel? There's a fine one-"

"No. Not a brothel." Jon cut in. "I'm looking for a man."

The woman became silent, frowning softly. "A man?"

"Aye. He's around-" Jon raised his hand off the mug, putting it more or less at the height that Robb was the last he recalled. "yea high. He's got reddish brown hair and big blue eyes. He usually had this beard-"

"That'a sounds like Petyr Vesli, the blacksmith." A man sitting not too far from him said.

"Shut your face, Bomor." The woman snapped. She looked towards Jon again and shook her head. "Beg pardon's, m'lord, but there ain't nobody by that description here. Drink your mead and leave." The woman turned and left through the back door, leaving Jon rather surprised.

Of course, he didn't believe her for a second. He passed the mug towards the man that had helped him and patted him on the back. "Thank you." He said, before slipping out of the tavern in time to catch sight of the woman running down the street. He began to follow after her, being careful every time she looked behind her. He would duck behind walls and carts of hay when she turned, making sure to keep an eye on where she had gone. She took some twist and turns, but he never once lost her.

They reached a forge that had seemed to be burning all night and the woman burst in through the front door; Jon stayed outside, but lingered close enough in an attempt to listen in on what occurred inside. 

"M'lord!" The woman said as she moved through the forge until she found who she was looking for. "You must leave, m'lord. There's someone here looking for you."


	17. Roose

The Bolton's hold in the North was simple at best, and weak at worst. They had no real claim to it, and only landed their power after their betrayal to the Stark's. Roose Bolton knew that many in the North still considered the Stark's their lord, and it was a slow process in making sure that they bend the knee to the flayed man.

He had been down by the Twin's for the past two months, fortifying his alliance with the Frey's, but now he was returning to the North and the moment he did he caught wind of what has been happening.

The Stark bastard imprisoned and waiting for a beheading.

That was certainly a reward all on it's own.

Only it hadn't been that way when he came through the gates of Winterfell. The moment he did he knew something had gone wrong-there was no head on a spike there to greet him. Dismounting his horse, Roose Bolton pulled off his gloves and turned to one of his guards.

"Where's my son?" He asked, not waiting for his wife to be escorted out of the carriage.

"I... M'lord... There's been..."

"What?" Roose said sharply, the word dragged out. "What's happened?"

"Tis best if you see it for yourself, m'lord."

They took him down to the crypts, the light of the torch illuminating their way. This had been the one place he had refused to go. The eyes of the dead Stark's watched them with every step they took-the stone Direwolves seemed to growl in the darkness.

"Why have you brought me down here?"

"Tis best-"

"If I see it for myself-yes, I got that. What's. Hap-" His words were cut short the moment he caught sight of the bodies. They laid side by side, Ramsay and Theon. Their bodies were pale and life had been drained out of them, their hands folded on their stomachs, almost making them look asleep. They hadn't begun to rot yet, the cold keeping them preserved.

"What. Happened?"

"The... Reek... he set the Stark bastard free and attacked Lord Ramsay, ser." The Guard said, his voice starting to tremble. "We was out hunting the bastard, with the hounds, when Reek tried to help the Lady Sansa escape. They killed each other, Ser."

Roose let out a slow breath. He walked over to his son and slowly knelt beside him. Placing a hand to his son's head, he leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead; it was cold and bitter. Yes, Ramsay hadn't been the best of son's, or the best of men, but Roose had loved him nonetheless. And now he laid dead.

"We didn't want to do anything until you got back, m'lord." The guard continued. "We figured you'd want to burn the bodies-"

"Prep the Godswood for a funeral." Roose said, standing up. "And gather an escort of ten men to bring Theon Greyjoy's body back to Pyke."

"M'lord?"

"DID. I. _STUTTER?_ " Roose screamed, turning to look at the guard. "If you stand there looking like a complete baboon you will join my son in the fire!"

The guard was quick to rush up the steps, leaving the torch hanging on the wall. Roose turned to look at his son again and closed his eyes. Strange... Ramsay almost looked to be smiling. Even in death, Ramsay seemed to hold the whole world in his hands.

"My Lord?" This time it was the soft voice of his wife that pulled his attention. She was escorted by some solders, her heavy footsteps echoing in the crypts. "I heard..."

"My son is dead." Roose said as he turned away from the bodies to look at her. "My son is dead." He repeated.

She stared up at him for a moment before reaching over to take his hands in hers. "My Lord-"

"My _SON IS DEAD!_ " He screamed, the sound loud enough to wake the dead. "I will hunt down the rest of the blighted Stark's and I will flay them and mount their bodies around Winterfell!" 

 

The funeral was simple. Roose Bolton and his wife, Lady Walda Fray, stood around the pyre, watching his son's body burn before the Godstree. The snow fell softly around them, though it melted before it could reach the ground. The fire burned bright and hot, and there came a time where he couldn't see Ramsay anymore in the flames that consumed him. He had sworn in the crypt, and he will swear to the Gods now. The Stark's will all fall.


	18. Asha

Asha had received the letter a fortnight ago, and after telling her father the news and seeing his indifference, she had crumbled it up and tossed it in the fire and watched it burn. Her brother was dead and there had been nothing she could have done to save him. She had tried, the Drowned God knows she tried, but he was too far gone-he was scared and weak and they had broken his soul and body. There had been nothing she could have done, for he did not wish to be rescued in fear of punishment. 

What could she have done? What could she have done differently? Should she have knocked him out and dragged him out of Moat Cailin? If she had, would that have saved her brother?

Asha Greyjoy, daughter of the self proclaimed King of the Iron Islands Balon Greyjoy, had no one anymore. All her brothers were dead and her father was a worthless heap of trash that did not deserve the air he still breathed. There had been a time when she had worshipped the ground her father walked--when she had sought to do everything in her power to make him smile, to make him proud. She had become the son he had lost to the Starks, so when Theon returned Balon Greyjoy could not see him, only a disappointment--because Asha had taken his place.

For nights she had cried alone in her chambers; for nights she had acted out, punching the walls and when she had the chance, the training dummies with her dirk. For nights she had sat on the rooftop of the The Bloody Keep, staring out into the ocean, and wondering how her brother had died. Had he died as Prince Theon of House Greyjoy, or as the lapdog to some sadistic Bolton Bastard?

When the escort arrived, she had them all killed on the spot. The Ironborn protected each other, and these men had belonged to a family that had butchered and murdered their prince. None of the ten escorts survived-three of them were sacrificed to the Drowned God. For another night, Asha sat in the room with her brother's body. The cold of the North had preserved him rather well, and he was only now starting to bloat and rot. She passed a hand through his messy hair and whispered soft words to him.

She missed her brother.

But now he'll know peace.

At dawn, Asha and a couple of her men stood at the shores of Pyke as her uncle started the ceremony. Theon's body had been cleaned with sea water, and dressed to befit a prince, with a crown adorning his head. His bow was placed on his chest, and his body was placed on a boat. All of his things that had remained in Pyke had filled the space around him. "Let Theon of House Greyjoy, your servant, be born again from the sea, as you were. Bless him with salt, bless him with stone, bless him with steel."

Asha closed her eyes as she spoke the words that she had memorised as a babe. "What is dead may never die." She said, an echo repeating around her as the men that had accompanied her said the same. 

"What is dead may never die, but rise again, harder and stronger." When Aeron Greyjoy finished his words, the boat was pushed out to sea.

Asha grabbed her own bow, dipped the arrow in fire and shot it once the boat was far enough away. She watched as it caught fire-watched as her brother burned and sank into the ocean, returning home at last.


	19. Robb/Jon

Petyr worked late hours at the forge, flattening hot steel with the ram of a hammerhead. His muscles turned to stone under oiled skin, the beard he wore covered scars from the reminisce of the long summer. He bore the sigil of a ram, having burned the direwolf along with the remains of the dead. His leathers were not fine leathers, his furs were not of wealthy men, and his hands were dirty like a blacksmiths hands. He was no Lord, but a common man with as much coin in his pocket as any farmer in Westeros. Still, the North remembered his face, and a Lord to them is what he remained.

Brown dusty curls dripped with sweat from the heat of the furnace that burned in the room with him. He rubbed away the cinders from his eyes, marking his skin black with ashes. He had his mothers skin, the porcelain skin of House Tully, and even the gentlest touch of wine was enough to leave an unremovable stain.

His world was disrupted when a familiar face came in through the door. And with her words his heart sank. Petyr raised from his place by the fire and collected whatever things he could before following the Northern woman out of the forge through the back door and to the wooden shack where he lived. Helena, the woman that came for him, unhooked a leather pouch from it's place on the wall and stuffed it with cheese and bread. Ramsgate bent their knee to one King, and that's the King in the North named Stark.

Petyr drew the curtains closed and pulled on his black cloak, throwing the hood over his head to cover his face. He took the bag from Helena and slung it over his shoulder. Bells rang from the tallest tower in Ramsgate to warn the Northern men that their Warden and true King had been found, either by a Lannister or a Bolton, they assumed. Petyr hurried to the stables and the boy there gave him their best and fastest horse. He still had allies in the North, but where was he to go?

Helena followed the blacksmith to the stables, never once leaving his side. She was quite fond of the man, but she thought it best to keep her voice low. Petyr prepared to mount his horse when Helena opened her mouth to speak. "How could they have found you, m'Lord?"

"I'm not sure. Someone must have sold me out for extra coin. No doubt this was a Lannister's doing." Petyr secured his saddle and tightened the belts around the belly of his mare. "Did you happen to see the man who was looking for me?"

"Yes, m'Lord." Helena took the bag of bread and cheese so her King could use his hands more freely. "He had dark curly hair, and his eyes were like lumps of coal. He's got scars on his face from talons, I think, and his clothes were covered in blood stains. He was carrying a sword, m'Lord.

Petyr tightened his grip on the reins and every bone in his body seemed to break. Helena came forth and placed her small hand on the man's strong shoulder. "Petyr...?"

"Take me to see this man." He cut in, words sharper than the swords he forged. Helena tucked her arms behind her back and stepped away from him. She wanted to argue, but instead she bowed her head and lead him to the Hanged Maiden where the traveler was last seen. The citizens of Ramsgate watched as their cloaked King walked along the stone pathway. Day had turned to dusk and the sun was well over set, and grey storm clouds hung over their heads. Snow began to fall while he walked to the tavern, torches frozen to the dirt and lit to guide him there.

Jon wanted to curse all the seven heavens and all the new gods and all the numerous old gods. He opened the door to the forge, being greeted by a wall of hot air. He could no longer hear the hushed voices of the woman, nor could he hear the ringing of metal on metal from the forge.

They had slipped out of the back, and that either meant that Robb Stark was alive, or that someone who didn't want to be found had just been discovered. Either way, they had escaped and Jon had lost track of them.

With another soft curse, Jon ran out of the forge and quickly looked around. Dark eyes scanned the crowed but he could not catch sight of the red-haired woman. That's when the the bells started ringing and the townspeople all suddenly looked pale and frightened. They all began to scatter, looking for something or someone or a weapon of sort. Gritting his teeth, Jon turned and dug his feet into the mud. The snow was beginning to fall once more and not even that could dampen his mood more. He had lost Robb once more, and now he had no way to track him. If Ghost had been here... Shaking his head, Jon was about to push his way back inside the tavern when he felt eyes on him. He paused, turning to look behind him-then froze. Standing before him was a man he would never forget.

Jon Snow, bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark and his half brother stood by the door in rags and a poorly made sword. Jon had been named Lord Commander of the Nights Watch and ally to the King beyond the Wall. Unlike his siblings, his hair was black like a Ravens wings and his eyes were dusty and dark. His leathers and his furs were not black as he had envisioned they'd be. The colour of his clothes was the first thought that crossed Robb's mind, other than why he wasn't wearing any shoes.

_Next time I see you, you'll be all in black_ is what Robb said to Jon before he left Winterfell for The Wall. Four years passed since their departure and he wasn't wearing black at all, but browns and greys and whites and rusty reds. He lowered his own hood to reveal blue beckoning eyes. Their gazes met, brother to brother, and for a moment, the boy had forgotten how to breathe. Silence filled the air as wind blew between them. That's when Robb's lips curled into a burning smile, a smile that was bright enough to melt the ice from his heart.

A gentle fit of laughter erupted from the Northerner's throat, and all the townspeople subsided their anxious minds, lowering their weapons. Fresh snow crunched under the soles of Robb's boots as he moved forth to shorten the distance between them.


	20. Daenerys

There was a great fire that burned the Northern trees; a cloud of black smoke hung over the woods of Winterfell like a grim man hung over mugs of ale. Daenerys was on the back of her dragon when she saw the smoke raising high, _as high as mountains_ , she thought, as the flames engulfed everything in its path until it all disintegrated to dust.

Daenerys may have been a stranger to this foreign country but she was no fool. Raging flames meant war, and with war came death. The further she descended from the darkened skies, the more men she could see marching through the willows and pines and sentinels. 

She worried for her dragons, for the friends she had abandoned in the fighting pits on the other side of the world, and most of all, she worried for the man on the pyre that survived his execution. Not even her brother's blood was enough to save him when he took his turn with the flame--his skin had been thinner than water and his heart had been thicker than stone. Daenerys thought of him then, about how flesh melted from bone and golden blood painted the rug he fell upon. In the end, her brother got, not the crown he wanted, but the crown he deserved. 

She returned to the mountains to hide out the invasion; the Mother of Dragons could not risk losing her children or faith in the Kingdom she wishes to rule.

Daenerys caught a glimpse of the sigil the men had carved into their chest plates and leather wrist guards and sown upon their banner--a flayed man, crucified upside down. But it didn't matter what sigil they carried, because in time, the flayed man will be burned in dragon fire, and the Targaryen sigil will hang from every castle wall in the Seven Kingdoms.


	21. Tyrion

Tyrion was not a fan of the ocean. He was not a fan of ships and sails and the smell of the salt sea and vomit. He had to endure months of it when he was stuck in a crate, escaping from King's Landing with Varys. Back then, all he could do was sit there in the darkness of the crate and think. He would think of Shae--the woman of his dreams, the woman he had loved. He would think about her smile, the way her body would look as she arched under him. He would think about how her nipples would harden with the touch of his fingers or the flick of his tongue. He remembered the way his name would roll off her tongue, the way she would tremble with every thrust of his hips or every lick of his tongue to her core.

But most of all, he remembered the way she had betrayed him. He remembered the way that he had tried to protect her, but all she had wanted was the wealth and the objects he had to give her. All she had cared for was what he could provide for her. He had been a means to an end; she had been a whore, and she had played him until the end, and when she could no longer take what she wanted from him, she turned to his father. When Tywin Lannister gave her what she desired, she was happily willing to speak against Tyrion--the man she had claimed to love. The man who had fallen helplessly in love with her. 

He had been a fool once again to fall for a whore. He should have learned his lesson the first time, but it seemed that he had been a glutton for punishment. 

Pain and sorrow filled his heart, but guilt was not one of the emotions that he felt when he thought of killing her. He felt rage; he felt blinding anger and heart wrenching pain, but he never felt guilt. Killing her was a mercy--it was a way to rid his heart of the agony that had festered there. Killing his father had been a relief; a way to escape the pain that his life had been because of him. He had been worse than a disappointment, and it was his death his father had wished for him. It was that, that had been the last straw. He had known that he would never have his father's love, nor his approval, but to know that his father was willing to accuse him of a crime just to have a reason to have him killed--it was more than he thought the man possible. 

The sea brought back thoughts he hadn't wanted to think of since reaching Essos. The sea brought back time he hadn't wished to have. There was nothing he could do, though, but sit and wait and think. The sea air brushed his golden curls back, and the motion made him wish for ale so he could drink himself until uncontioustess. Perhaps if he closed his eyes and slipped away into the bottom of his cup, he'll open his eyes in Dorne and would have missed the whole trip. 

Missandei spent all her time in her cabin; Daario stayed above deck, cleaning and mending his blades; Jorah stayed by the captain, watching the ocean pass them. Days turned to weeks, and months in the ocean turned tedious when storms would blow and their sails broke. They had to stop twice at two different harbours to repair the sails and to get more men. It was nearly two months later that they finally reached the Dorne harbour. 

"Ah. Finally to be on solid land." Tyrion let out a sigh and tugged on the hood of his cloak over his head. Dorne was hot, but it wasn't such a drastic difference from Meereen. It was a mix of heat and humidity, thanks to the ocean breeze. He was a Lion in a country that hated Lions. He had walked into the snake pit and was hoping not to get bit.

"Okay, so we're in Westeros. How are we going to find her?" Jorah asked as he gripped the hilt of his blade. The last time he had been in Westeros, he had lost everything and had been driven out into exile. A part of him felt like he didn't belong here at all, but this was where his queen was, and he would do anything to find her. 

"We do it the old fashion way. We ask around." Tyrion said as he took Missandei's hand. "We shall be at the tavern. The Gods know I need a little ale in my belly."


End file.
